Page 113 of Fractured Fear

He fishes out his wallet and hands me a card for a counseling center. I examine it and give him a questioning look.

“I started going there after I got mugged. Remember that? They’re really nice there and helped me work through everything I was feeling. I still go once a month.”

His confession leaves me speechless. Iris shows no surprise. I remember when Hayes got mugged not long after he started working at the studio. It scared the shit out of me.

“Thanks, Hayes. I’ll give them a call tomorrow.” The lie leaves a sour taste in my mouth.

Hayes gets comfortable again with his arm around Iris and resumes the show. By the end of the third episode, I check my phone again. Still no new texts or calls.

My gaze catches Iris eyeing my phone. I lock it and set it down.

Sticking to the plan, I stand and make an excuse that I’m tired and going to lay down. Neither Hayes nor Iris gives it a second thought.

My guilt weighs heavy on me, so I give them each a hug and tell them I love them. I ignore their confused looks and casually make my way to my room, even though I’m sweating bullets.

Locking the door behind me, I snatch my bags from their hiding place under my bed and open the window. I’m halfway out with my ass on the windowsill when I hesitate.

Is this the best way? Is leaving going to make a difference? How do I know Anthony will leave everyone alone?

I shake off my doubts and shut the window. With my bag across my body and my backpack secure, I climb down the steps.

The guys kept my goodbye letters. Inconvenient as hell, but I’ll just have to ask them to give the letters to Hayes, Iris, Paul, and Alma for me. A text will be shitty of me, but I can’t ask them to distribute the letters in person. I wouldn’t be able to go through with it and I’d end up staying.

The walk to the subway is short, but I can’t rush it. I have to act natural even if it feels like my breakfast wants to make a second appearance. Trying not to wring my hands is right up there next to impossible, but this bitch can do hard things.

Strolling down the sidewalk with sweat dripping down my back, I feel the hairs on the back of my neck begin to stand. I almost dismiss the feeling, attributing it to the slight breeze blowing by.

Still going for a casual exterior, I pull out my sunglasses and slide them on. With the added barrier I’m able to scan my surroundings. No one looks suspicious or out of place. A mom is pushing a stroller, a jogger blasts their music in their ears, a teen walks their Corgi down the sidewalk.

But I can’t disregard my gut, it’s what has kept me alive this far.

I pretend to stretch my neck and get a look at the people behind me. A businessman with a briefcase, an elderly woman with her cane, a couple holding hands while they chat, and just six feet behind them is a man with his focus zeroed in on my head. I’ve never seen him before, and commit his face to memory.

Dark hair with a military cut, brown eyes, alabaster skin with freckles, and a scar running down his jaw. His shoulders aren’t the kind of wide that he takes up the whole sidewalk, but wide enough to feel threatening.

Adding a little more pep in my step, I pick up speed. The subway entrance comes into view, and I risk another glance over my shoulder. My mouth goes dry.

He’s closer than before.

Now at a brisk jog, I hear a pounding on the pavement behind me.

Shit.

I’m a runner, but I’ve never gone on my morning run with the extra weight of bags hanging from my body.

Something to practice in the future.

I pump my arms as I switch to an all out sprint. The pounding behind me gets louder and my stomach knots. When I reach the steps leading down to the platform, there’s a fierce tug on my backpack, my torso is jerked back and I almost lose my balance.

This is not fucking happening again.

Turning my momentum around, I spin and duck under the man’s arm. I lift my elbow and bring it down on his arm repeatedly which catches him by surprise.

I keep reminding myself the goal isn’t to win. The goal is to get away.

When he lets go I aim back for the stairs, but this time he grabs my ponytail and I cry out.

I twist back around and clutch his grip with one hand and his wrist with my other. Turning so his arm is extended with his elbow contorted at the wrong angle. I crank his wrist and thrust my head forward allowing my body to follow the direction. He goes down with me and I straddle this chest. Delivering two swift blows to his head, I scramble to my feet and dart down the stairs.

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